


On Natural Cartography

by agenthill



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, gratuitous mapfucking, the previous tag is not literal, this is an homage to my love of maps disguised as a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All along, she ought to have viewed Cassandra through a sextant, taking measure of the distance between their two bodies.  Cassandra is a storm, and Josephine is the ocean.  They fit together, the two of them entwined.  What is a storm without water, where is the danger in the sea without the storms to toss the waves up, up, higher and higher until she is drowning.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A relatively brief tale of the path one takes to understanding another person, replete with unnecessary references to cartography, and the tools by which one navigates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Natural Cartography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hinterlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for Skitch. Congratulations on officially being old. It's easier than it sounds, I promise.
> 
> All I wanted was to make a few map puns, but then it snowballed into this.
> 
> The chapter title is from a quote by Gilles Deleuze, "Writing has nothing to do with meaning. It has to do with landsurveying and cartography, including the mapping of countries yet to come."
> 
> This work is crossposted to [my tumblr account.](http://agenthill.tumblr.com) Feel free to drop me a line.

If one were to ask how Josephine thought of herself (none in the Inquisition would be so inclined, but supposing one was), one might be surprised to learn that she thought herself, first and foremost, not an ambassador nor any form of diplomat, but a cartographer.  Of a certainty, none might consider her to be the sort of dashing explorer Scout Harding was, charting the unknown (at night, she dreams she is tossed by the waves, far out on a sea as yet unexplored), and it would be foolish to even suggest she might be like Solas, endlessly wandering ancient ruins and taken measure of the Veil (she uses what she has so painstakingly mapped to ruin others, someday one such as he might find the ripples that remain of her wake), and no one is like unto Cassandra, a force of nature who strikes out her own path, leaving the bodies of those slain as cairns (but a sword is not the only way to kill, and Josephine no longer shies away from pushing others overboard).

Within the Inquisition, everyone follows their own compass rose towards a personal true north.  Bull has the Qun, Vivienne ambition, and Blackwall guilt.  A thousand internal and internalized forces plot their trajectory.  But for Josephine, they are all of them moved by something within, by something they are without. 

As for herself, Josephine follows the stars.  Not in the sense that the Inquisitor uses astrariums to find artifacts, nor in the way Leliana once kissed constellations from her freckles, but in a way solely her own, following a sextant of her own making does Josephine strike out.  In her years with the courts, charting the shifting of the heavens season to season, the corresponding ebb and flow of influence, Josephine has mastered the mapping of people.  Constellations of power, of control and allegiance, are easily plotted by her hand, and by these celestial maps does she navigate delicate relationships as her work requires.

Rarely does she fail to find a place for someone within her existing framework, but Josephine is not infallible and Cassandra Pentaghast is an enigma.  From their first meeting, Josephine finds herself confused by the Seeker, whose name and countenance belie strong connections to the nobility, but who states openly that she despises all manner of politics and politicians.  Josephine thinks to mention that the Chantry informs most political decisions across Thedas, but she knows better than to do so, and Leliana has warned her of Cassandra's volatile disposition.

In the early weeks, Josephine categorizes the people of Haven one by one (Flissa seeks comfort, safety, a certainty in uncertain times), and she learns the Herald, who wants nothing more than to be free (no more chains, no more bonds—he Templars are gone now and she will not be made to listen to anyone—there will be no more cages) and the companions who make their home in haven, Solas, who longs for a world long past and thinks he will set things to rights (though rights may not mean _right_ ), Vivienne who knows the influence she might gain through association, and has mapped her own path forward, but Cassandra?  Cassandra is an enigma.  Passion blazes, but Cassandra is no wildfire, she burns not so indiscriminately, nor is she a hearth, which might burn a home down if left unattended.  Josephine entertains the thought that she is like a candle, then, a flame tamed as surely as the one on her clipboard (could Josephine tame her?). 

However, she is not yet certain that the comparison fits, quite, and Josephine is meticulous in her categorization.  If Cassandra is not precisely a torch, then she is none at all—fire is far too destructive, and it is Cassandra’s inclination to build.  The whole matter must be reassessed, but Josephine will find an answer, for she did not while away hours in poetry lessons to fail at metaphor now.

For she who trusts in the maker, fire is her water, Mother Giselle says as she recites the chant and yes, thinks Josephine, yes, Cassandra's fire is not the destruction of a blaze through a crowded city, by her faith she is far too tempered.  On her chart, Josephine crosses out the word "fire" beside Cassandra's name.  She is not driven by reaction, Cassandra is something more, is something deeper.

Society cannot map Cassandra, she is not a star in a constellation; she strikes out on her own far too much to be a part of a larger web of influence, and it was foolish of Josephine to take her measure by trying to relate her position to so many others.  All along Josephine ought to have measured her with an astrolabe, her role in the Chantry and the orders of her superiors the measure of height.  In this way, Cassandra’s movements might be plotted, accounting for the tide of the times in order to locate her, just so. 

This realization notwithstanding, Josephine attempts to find the measure of Cassandra again only after the destruction at Haven.  Without a point of reference, heretofore unknown to her, Josephine could not hazard a guess as to where Cassandra’s loyalties now lie, had no means of knowing whose orders might fill the gap Justinia left behind.

Following, Josephine has learned, is an essential part of Cassandra’s nature.  She is a capable leader, one cannot deny this, but she is not the willing one her station might have lead Josephine to believe.  As a matter of course, Cassandra rather prefers to find herself in line with the ideal of another and to build from that point when forming her own role.  Although her many ideas and convictions she would not abandon for any leader, she is rather inclined towards finding a leader who believes the same things, or as near to them as she can come, and from there she follows.  This is not done out of a fear of responsibility, or a lack of principle of any sort, but Cassandra is too humble to seek such a role.  For a woman of faith, she doubts considerably.  Idly, Josephine wonders how this came to be—Cassandra does not seem the type to second-guess herself, and blatantly disregards the fact that others might disapprove of her actions yet the hesitance remains. 

Perchance this, too, is Cassandra's faith guiding her, in that she has been told for so long to obey the word of the Chantry that she cannot see herself as doing otherwise, even as she makes her own decisions.  Does she think herself unworthy?  Does she compare herself, in the quiet hours, to Andraste in some way, and find herself wanting?  Or, perhaps a better question: how could she not? Cassandra wishes perfection and precision in everything she does, her hours of training day in and day out belie this.  Never does Cassandra hesitate to work towards bettering herself, so it is not unfathomable that she might compare herself to the best, the incomparable.  But would not such a thing be blasphemy?  (Mayhap it is unconscious, rationalizes Josephine, Cassandra is not the type for self-reflection, or at least does not bill herself as such.  It is far from unthinkable that she might castigate herself without realizing it.)

Faith, thinks Josephine, that must be what guides Cassandra.  Faith, and a desire for perfection.  She measures herself against the foremost heroes, the Pentaghasts and the knights, the ladies of the Chanty, Cassandra will be the finest she can or she will be nothing, in her own eyes (and she is not her heroes).

For a while, this seems a suitable summation of Cassandra, it explains why she shall not boast, explains her hesitance to lead her own order and her nervousness at her words being recorded, even her fear of being regarded as a blasphemer.  Indeed, Josephine quite nearly has the sum of the Seeker, in her own estimation.  Josephine watches as Cassandra drives ever onwards towards her ideal, how she demands the utmost amount of effort from others, and the deference with which she treats those whom she believes are acting as their best possible selves.  Notably, it is not absolute perfection she demands, for Cassandra is a pragmatist, but some manner of personal perfection, the attempt to be one’s purest self.

As explanations go, that one seems quite good--until Josephine learns about _Swords and Shield_ s.  Simply put, it does not fit the paradigm Josephine has constructed for Cassandra, throwing her navigation of their relationship off course.  Such a fancy is neither the pragmatic nor the ideal, is not aligned with the action of a woman striving for perfection, for though Cassandra is not open about this habit, clearly considering it to not fit her gestalt for the perfect Seeker, the perfect woman-warrior, she is not ashamed of herself for her fanciful notions.  (Embarrassed, yes, of course, as any lady might be, but ashamed, no, never, she is as brash and proud and firm in her convictions with this as she is with anything).

Perfection must be struck from her list.  Cassandra is to be measured not with an astrolabe, maritime or otherwise. 

By now Josephine has been wrong twice which, really, is inexcusable, and far be it from her to be found wrong again.  Well aware is she that she holds herself to the highest standards, and although such an attitude is not always beneficial, in this arena she brooks no mistakes.  As an ambassador, it is her job to understand people, to know them intimately, perhaps better than they do themselves.  That being so, Josephine _will_ find her answer, she is a navigator and she shall reach the core of Cassandra so that she might chart her, might know her on the deepest of levels.

For quite some time, Josephine has been inviting Cassandra to tea, and although Cassandra declines initially, as is her nature, citing duty and a lack of social graces, with time and no small amount of charm Josephine entices her to acquiescence. 

When social grace and a plea of societal obligation fail, Josephine has quite the array of other tools at her disposal, and just as she predicts Cassandra is unable to resist an appeal to her stubbornly heroic nature, suddenly free to meet when Josephine complains of having no one to speak to with whom she might unwind after such long periods of speaking with Orlesian nobility.  In this instance, Cassandra might tell herself she is in some capacity working still, and so she is perfectly willing to sit by the hearth and chat over tea and pastries.

Having been persuaded once, Cassandra acquiesces easily to Josephine’s subsequent invitations, and now they meet twice, thrice a week to sit and laugh about the frivolity of the nobility who pass through Skyhold, to shamelessly gossip about their companions, and to discuss all manner of other things, up to and including Cassandra’s singular taste in literature.  Theirs quickly becomes a friendly rapport, and though Josephine may yet lack a fundamental understanding of Cassandra’s nature, they have found in each other a friend and confidant.

At times, when they glance at each other sidewise across the fire, Josephine feels as if their connection might be something deeper, but it is a foolish thought for Cassandra is uninterested in women in such a capacity, and how can Josephine have feelings for someone she cannot even understand?

So it is that Josephine sets her feelings aside, as much for her own sake as for Cassandra’s.  Lust is something wholly unfamiliar to her, having previously only experienced such attraction to people with whom she was already quite well acquainted, and romantically so.  Even then, Josephine had worried that her attraction was not so much towards the individual as it was towards her understanding of their nature, and that is clearly not applicable in this instance.  Were it not for her noble upbringing, Josephine might lose sleep thinking of it, but the illusion that is central to nobility demands an aptitude for ceasing to think about things that are incongruent with one’s worldview, and so she banishes all troubling thoughts from her mind.  Cassandra is a friend, nothing more, and any fascination she holds must be due the puzzle of her being.

Then there is the matter of the Seekers, and their Lord Seeker, Lucius Corin.  That it is the nature of power to corrupt is no secret, and although Cassandra must have seen it do so many times in her life, such knowledge does little to mitigate the terrible blow such a betrayal deals her.  Josephine knows this to be so, has glimpsed enough of Cassandra to understand some measure of what this must mean to her, at least.

So it is that when Cassandra fails to appear for their scheduled interlude, Josephine seeks her out.  Knowing that she will likely be in ill temper, many of their companions have left Cassandra to her grief, but Josephine is a great believer in the power of conversation, and will not allow herself to be intimidated by the manner in which Cassandra is known to express her frustration.  Months of pleasant discussion shall not be for naught, and if nothing else Josephine is reasonably certain that her ambassadorial skills have amply prepared her for this.

Josephine is wrong.

The manner of Cassandra’s grieving is something that she has mischaracterized entirely.  From what she remembers of Haven, and more distantly the aftermath of the Conclave, she fully expects that Cassandra will be angry, will look for someone to blame so that she might punish those accountable for their transgressions, will lash out.  Instead, Cassandra’s is a quiet anger, and although she is normally taciturn now she is rendered entirely mute.  No attempt at starting conversation by Josephine bears fruit.

For but a moment, Josephine thinks to leave, but the air in the room is like the static before a storm, and Cassandra’s expression like the grumble of thunder over the horizon.  If she but waits, Cassandra will speak, and patience is a virtue which Josephine has cultivated over the course of many years.  In silence, they sit, and when Cassandra shifts closer towards Josephine, the latter puts her arm around Cassandra’s waist in what she hopes will be perceived as it is intended, a comforting gesture.

Time passes.  They breathe, out, in, out, breath synchronizing in the silence.  Josephine is now undoubtedly behind on paperwork for the day, now, but she has by now long since learned that personal crises can outweigh global ones, depending on where one stands.

“I failed them,” Cassandras says at last, breaking her silence in just the abrupt manner Josephine has come to expect of her, voice thick with grief and made rough by recent disuse.

But of course she blames herself.  Josephine might have been wrong to think that perfection itself drove Cassandra, to think that such a desire was the whole of her being, but a desire for such remains integral to her character.

“Had I been there,” Cassandra’s words cut off Josephine’s thoughts, “had I made an effort to be there sooner… I cannot help but think things would not have ended as they have.  Perhaps it is hubris to think I might have succeeded where my comrades failed, but I cannot help but think things would have ended differently were I there.”                                                          

“It is true,” says Josephine carefully, “that things would have been different.” There is no point in denying such, Cassandra is an intelligent woman not to be talked down to, “But that is not to say that things would necessarily have been better.  You might have stopped ten, or twenty, or a hundred of your fellow Seekers’ corruption before you yourself fell, only to have them broken in the aftermath, just the same.”

Cassandra shifts as if to protest, but Josephine ploughs on before she can be stopped, “Or, supposing you had saved the Seekers, what then?  In the aftermath, what might have become of the Inquisition?  Justinia, voice of the Maker, bade you to serve, here.  Would you have defied her?”

By now, the sun is setting, and Josephine watches Cassandra’s throat work as she swallows, illuminated by the last vestiges of light for the day.  The both of them know the answer to her question.  When one knows the answers, there remains little sense in torturing oneself with questions, Josephine knows that the pragmatist in Cassandra must see this.

Pressing, she adds, “The Inquisition needs you,” and tilting Cassandra’s head so they might look eye to eye, “I need you.”

Like this, it is easy to see the conflict inside Cassandra, cool pragmatism meeting hot passion, all reaction, and _oh,_ thinks Josephine, as Cassandra moves to press their lips together, Cassandra is a storm.

In all cases she can think of—although she is, admittedly, not thinking terribly much right now, the comparison is apt.  Retrospectively it is clear, particularly in the manner by which she relates to others, Cullen's blood runs hot, lyrium like lightning in his veins, he keeps apace, Leliana is immovable stone and the storm may weather her but it will never break her, and Josephine is water, the storm may toss her and stir her but it can never break her, can blow her far from where her currents may otherwise have taken her, but can never change her nature, and she always flows back to the sea.

All along, she ought to have viewed Cassandra through a sextant, taking measure of the distance between their two bodies.  Cassandra is a storm, and Josephine is the ocean.  They fit together, the two of them entwined.  What is a storm without water, where is the danger in the sea without the storms to toss the waves up, up, higher and higher until she is drowning.

Gasping for breath as they break apart, Josephine remembers what it is has brought them here today, and is abruptly sobered.  “Not now,” says she, for it is neither the time, nor the place, and although Cassandra’s nature defies any who might attempt to take advantage, she cannot see this otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” slips from her lips— _damn_ her etiquette lessons—although she is not sorry, not at all, but it seems she must err now that progress has been made, otherwise she might grow too sure of her abilities.

In an instant, Cassandra’s whole posture shifts, and whatever gap in understanding they might have bridged is a chasm once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I allowed Skitch to choose between an angsty or fluffy end to this half, and they chose angst, so take that decision up with them, not me. I'm a weenie who loves happy endings.
> 
> Also, I haven't written an Actual Fic in forever so if you leave a comment I'd be quite grateful. I'm a bit out of practice and could use feedback.


End file.
